


Drawing Blinds

by caibi



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Blindness, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, kinda sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-03 08:46:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1738424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caibi/pseuds/caibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was really nothing interesting about the plastic slats hanging in front of the window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawing Blinds

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the bae, tumblr user half-of-marco-bodt. She is absolutely fantastic. Happy (belated) birthday!  
> Let's pretend for a minute that I'm not an actual piece of shit for finishing this 3 weeks late (I'm soooo sorry bae).

It had taken six hours to move all of the boxes into the house. Another two to find and gather the ones marked "Jeanbo's Room."

"Who the hell let that woman label all the boxes?" The teen muttered bitterly, lifting a trio of small bins in his arms. He hated this new house already.

Jean's mother, having reverted to her innate interest in his education and well-being, decided to move to the small town of Trost. This was all thanks to Jean himself, who had managed to get into his six fights during the last semester of the school year while simultaneously letting his average drop (unintentionally, of course). Mrs. Kirschtein knew that her boy was smart, and that he had a lot of potential. She couldn't just sit back and watch while he flunked out of all of his courses and made enemies with his peers.

Thinking that the school itself was the root of the problem, she sold their old home and moved three hours away. Mrs. Kirschtein had heard that Trost High School had a high percentage of graduates, and that it was known for its rigorous course studies. It was the perfect place to send her little Jeanbo.

During this entire process, Jean was internally screaming. He wouldn't know his way around the town or the school. He had to leave all of his friends behind in order to live in a small suburban area where he wouldn't know anyone. This meant that Jean wouldn't have anyone to talk to except for his mother. Just his mother. All summer long.

He made his decision. He would lock himself in his room for two months. That would definitely work.

* * *

Leaving his mother to organize the rest of the decor, the two-toned blond set himself to sorting through all of his own boxes. In his new room on the second floor, Jean laid all eight of his bins out on the carpet. The bed, dresser, and remaining furniture had been moved into the house the previous day; all that was left were his clothes and various other possessions. 

After a few hours, his clothes were all hanging in the closet or crammed into dresser drawers, and his Xbox was set up and connected to his television. That was about all he could get done before he resigned himself to laziness. He sat back on the bed, scrolling through old messages on his phone. The last message had been from Connie, received yesterday, and it read: "I'm gonna miss you, man. Lemme know if they have good food down there."

Jean sighed and rolled over, staring blankly around the room. He noticed the chipping white paint plastered to the walls and a crooked hinge on the closet door. There was a tear in the faded peach carpet near the bedside table, and twelve small holes dotted the wall behind the television, probably from nails or screws. There was only one window in the room, and through it came a stream of steady sunlight. The walls were bathed in orange from the digressing sunset, and the space felt a little more homely, if only for a moment.

The blond stalked over to the window and sat just below it for a moment. He rested his chin on the sill and stared up at the wispy pink clouds drifting through the sky. Jean's gaze shifted from the sky to the house that sat across from his own. It was a grey house with navy blue shutters, and only three windows occupied the second floor. Two of them were draped with lace curtains, pulled back only slightly so as to allow the evening glow to sift through the embroidery. The third, the one directly across from Jean's, was pulled closed. Blinds hung from the top, plastic panels barring any light from entering.

To Jean, it looked quite depressing.

* * *

 

It took four days for Jean to finally get off his lazy ass and start unpacking the rest of his stuff. 

That particular day, he was feeling rather generous (or at least, not entirely selfish), so he helped his mother place some of the remaining belongings in their rightful spots. While Mrs. Kirschtein was occupied with the various pots, pans, and silverware scattered around the kitchen, her son was told to adjust the patio furniture. The teen brought out armfuls of lounge cushions and ornamental pillows. He doubted the practicality of such decorative items in an area that could potentially damage them, though he supposed it was his mother's fault if they got soaked in the rain or blown away in the wind.

A small glass table was set between a pair of chairs, and atop it was a willowy old potted plant. A set of lawn chairs was to be spread out, and a fire pit hauled into the middle of the yard.

This was all very tedious and time consuming, though he guessed it was better than going to the park and meeting new friends, as his mother suggested ( _Really though_ , Jean thought, y _ou'd think she'd have more common sense by now_ ).

Just as he was dragging the grill over to its spot, Jean heard a loud crash and a hastily bitten off swear.

He looked up to the fence, assuming that the noise had come from the other side of it.

"Uh...you ok?" The blond inquired loudly.

"Wha-oh...yeah. Yeah I'm fine," came an obviously surprised voice. It was distinctly male and rather young. "Thanks, though...I-I guess."

The other boy, who must have fallen quite hard to have made such a loud crash, could be heard speedily walking back toward his own house. The back door slammed, and it became quiet again.

 

That evening, as Jean sat on the floor of his new room, he could have sworn he saw the blinds of the window opposite his shuffle briefly. Just as he looked up, though, the shuffling abruptly stopped.

Someone had been watching.

* * *

 This went on for nearly three days, in which time Jean became increasingly curious about his nosy neighbor. He would catch the person hidden behind them trying to steal glances through slats in the blinds through his peripheral vision. Yet every time he turned his head to look at them completely, they would quickly retreat back into their room. 

At the end of the third day, the teen had had enough.

"Hey, are you just gonna keep peeping like that or are you gonna introduce yourself?" Jean demanded once the other had once again been caught staring.

"I didn't..I wasn't trying-" the other boy stammered. "L-look I wasn't peeping or doing anything dirty like that!"

Jean could practically sense the blush on the other's cheeks. Maybe he shouldn't have phrased it like that, but then again, the boy deserved it.

"Just..." the blond sighed. "Are you gonna open the blinds up or not? I know you've been staring, so what difference does it make if you come out?"

"But-"

"I don't have all day, man."

There was a long string of muffled curses coming from the other side of the blinds that sounded pretty funny coming from a voice that sounded so innocent. Finally, with a couple firm tugs, the blinds were drawn open.

On the other side of that window sat a boy, probably about the age of 17 or 18. He had dark skin with freckles mapped across its surface, and an unruly mop of brown hair that made it look as if he had just woken up from a nap. But his eyes. His eyes were a strange melting pot of brown and gold, making an shade that's not quite amber in color. They positively glowed in the dim evening light, reflecting back into Jean's own. But they had a strange quality to them that he couldn't quite place.

A faint blush was evident on the boy's face as he struggled to find words. "I'm, uh, I'm Marco."

"Jean."

"So you're our new neighbor, huh? Nice to meet you."

"Same here," Jean said. "Though I remember you falling a few days ago."

Marco went bright red and tried to dip his head below the window frame.

"And then there was the peeping..." Jean teased.

"I told you I was sorry!" Marco exclaimed, not understanding the innocent taunt.

"Woah woah, calm down. I'm just messing with you. I get it. But for future reference, it might be less conspicuous to leave the open, or at least half-open. That way I wouldn't hear the shuffling."

The brunet released a breathy laugh. "Duly noted."

"But really, you could just say hi."

"Yeah. I guess I could."

The two laughed, quietly and without it being forceful.

After that, they had stuck up a light conversation to ease some of the tension and uncertainty. They discussed their favorite video games and movies, books and shows. Jean described his old school and Marco described Trost High. They would both be seniors there next year, so Jean was grateful for every detail he could get.

That night, as the pair said their farewells, each left his own window open, and Marco kept his blinds closed halfway.

* * *

 

The following day, Marco was sitting with his back to the window. Tufts of dark hair stuck out just above the windowsill, and Jean admired the sight just long enough to decide that he was ready to strike up another conversation. The night before, they had stayed awake well past midnight. Jean found that he enjoyed the feeling of simply talking.

"Yo, Marco," he called.

The brunet jumped, surprised. There was a muffled _thump_ and a hiss of "Ow!"

Jean chuckled. Marco seemed to have a knack for accidentally hurting himself.

"It's not funny!" he said, rubbing the top of his head. In spite of his words, to corners of Marco's mouth were threatening to tug into a small smile.

"It is and you know it," the other retorted. "What were you doing under the window, anyway?"

"Oh, uh, I was reading."

"Really? What book?"

"Machiavelli's _The Prince_."

"Are you fucking serious?" the blond said, astonished.

"No, he died in the fifth book," Marco smirked.

Jean shot him a twisted smile. "Never would've guessed that you were such a fuckin' nerd."

The freckled boy laughed, and offered "Well I wasn't actually reading _The Prince_ , if that helps. It was....never mind."

"No, really, what were you reading?"

"Don't worry about it."

The amber eyes turned downward, and his smile had vanished. The sad expression was one that Jean did not want to see on Marco's face.

"Hey, Marco." 

The brunet's eyes traveled upward again, sadness still present but face doing everything in its power to appear fine. "Hm?"

"Do you like peanut butter and jelly?" 

Marco's expression morphed into a one of profound confusion. "Yeah. Why?"

"I'll be right back."

 

Jean returned a few minutes later with a blue porcelain plate piled high with sandwiches.

"Look what I've got!" the blond practically sang.

Marco squinted a bit, trying to see what was in Jean's hand. "Erm...what have you got?"

"Come on, man, they're sandwiches! Peanut butter and jelly. Don't tell me you were lying when you said you like them."

"O-oh, of course! Yeah!" Marco beamed. "Sorry, I just...couldn't see....light in my eye, y'know?"

He threw over half of a sandwich into Marco's window. Only, he had misjudged the distance and threw it a little short. It landed partially on the sill, and partially off. The freckled boy on the other hand seemed to have completely missed the arrival of the sandwich. That is, until he heard the faint sound of it landing. Just as he reached for it, however, its weight betrayed it as it plummeted to the ground.

"Oh no, Jean, I'm so sorry!"

Jean simply laughed. "It's okay. I have more. I know that was a terrible throw, but you totally could have caught that."

"Y-yeah," Marco rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay, I'm ready now. Throw it, Jean. Don't miss this time."

The other laughed, and threw the sandwich. This time, it landed in Marco's lap. As he picked it up, he noticed something on his shorts. 

"Hey, you got peanut butter on me!"

Jean, mouth full of his own sandwich, struggled to provide a quick "Thowwy. It'w come out in the wath."

"It damn well better come out in the wash," Marco teased. "These are new shorts!"

He took a huge bite of his sandwich and grinned like an idiot as he chewed.

* * *

 

 It continued like this for two weeks. The pair of them woke up mid-morning. If one woke up first, the other would whisper his name shrilly until they rolled out of bed grumbling. Most of the day, aside from the time spent with family or doing chores, was occupied with strings of conversations with one another. They would stay up late into the night, with aimless discussion bleeding into comfortable silence.

They played games. Mainly conversation games, like 20 Questions and "Never Have I Ever" (but with root beer instead of alcohol). Marco really didn't like I-Spy. They played cards, too, with the crude 'delivery' contraption that Jean constructed. It was made with tough string and a metal bucket. The ends of the string were tied to an object in each boy's room (Jean's was tied to his desk drawer's knob right next to the window) and the bucket dangled from the string when it stretched between both houses. 

Once, they placed a travel-sized game board atop the bucket's rim and sent it back and forth between the two in order to move their respective pieces. The game lasted a solid five minutes before Marco's hand misjudged the location of the board and knocked it to the ground below.

Jean would be the first to admit that playing 'long distance' Monopoly was not his brightest idea.

Marco often sent freshly baked pastries to Jean via bucket. His mother was a brilliant baker, and since she only worked part-time, she dedicated most of her remaining hours in the kitchen, slaving over the hot oven. Marco thought that it was foolish of her to do so in the summer, with consistent 85 degree weather, but elected not to say anything for fear of losing his precious apple tarts. He sent Jean some assorted goods, like banana bread and blueberry muffins, with the occasional obscure treat like a raspberry-coconut doughnut or a wasabi cake bite (which was weirdly good).

Marco, it seemed, kept getting clumsier and clumsier as summer wore on. He accidentally knocked things from his windowsill or spilled them from the bucket in an attempt to dump its contents into his lap. After a while, there was a pile of miscellaneous items just below his window, including but not limited to: the travel Monopoly board and game pieces,  a chocolate chip cannoli, a pair of shoelaces, two empty root beer cans and one half-full one, a quarter of a deck of cards, and a crumpled up doodle. In truth, the freckled boy could easily go down there and retrieve those items, but he was just lazy.

It's a wonder his father hadn't seen the mess yet. If he'd seen it, Marco would probably have been grounded.

The first few times that things had fallen or been mistakenly swept to the ground by Marco's hand, Jean had chuckled. But as the incidents began happening more frequently, he could sense the brunet's frustration. He felt bad for Marco, and wished he could do something. Each time something clattered to the ground, Marco became even more worked up. There were deepening creases between his eyebrows, and his eyelids would shut tightly. When he scrunched his nose, the freckles appeared to merge together. Those on his cheeks stood out against reddening skin, a result of frustration, disappointment, and embarrassment. 

Jean wanted to comfort Marco, not just by offering a joke or two as an immediate distraction like he'd been doing, but with physical presence. He seemed to realize that the freckled boy didn't get enough human contact. For whatever reason, his parents were reluctant to be with their son. Marco had hinted at that during early July. Jean had mentioned his own deadbeat father, and Marco easily sympathized, saying that he knew what it was like to feel alone. That statement had stuck in the back of Jean's mind.

But the dirty blond couldn't very well invite himself over to Marco's home. His mother had raised him better than to intrude on another person's living space.

Besides, who knew if Marco even wanted him there? It was a few simple mistakes, really. Just some mistaken slips of the hand. A misinterpretation of depth, that's all. Marco was a klutz, and that was that. There were plenty of people who had that problem. Jean was over thinking things.

 

Around the middle of summer, Marco got into a particularly bad mood. He tried not to show it. He would flash Jean a smile every once in a while, as a silent sign that he was doing fine. That nothing was wrong.

But Jean could tell that it was forced.

And dammit if he didn't want to bring the brunet into a tight embrace and never let go.

But he couldn't. So he didn't.

The two remained in their separate bedrooms, each doing a poor job of feigning emotional stability. Marco was trying to be brave through whatever he was going through. Jean was trying to fight the urge to throw himself into Marco's window.

* * *

 

It was a Friday in late July. Marco had been gone all day, so Jean was parked in front of his television playing video games. He was worried about his friend, but he tried to push that worry into the deepest crevice of his mind and ignore it.

It wasn't working.

 He spent a few hours sitting there, and his butt was starting to fall asleep for the third time. He finally heard a car pulling up into Marco's driveway halfway through the afternoon, and heard the other boy's bedroom door open and close a few minutes later. The brunet did not appear at the window.

 Jean looked out into Marco's room and didn't see him there. The lights were off. He assumed he must be sleeping.

Marco probably needed some time alone. After all, the two of them had talked nearly every hour of the day for the past month.

So the blond went back to his game, feeling the worry creep back into his mind despite the effort he took took shove it away.

 

Hours later, Jean was getting ready to go to bed. After he was dressed in his pajamas, he took a glance out the windows. The blinds were closed for the first time since the day Jean had introduced himself. He sighed deeply. Marco just needed space, that's all.

 

The blinds were drawn down for a week. In that time, Jean had done little but sit in his room and watch television or stare aimlessly at the neighboring window. He had no interest in going outside to meet new people or tour the town or some stupid shit like that. 

The following Friday, there was no noise whatsoever coming from Marco's room. There was never any light peeking between the slats of the blinds. A small brown spider had taken residence in the delivery bucket, and the string was drooping pathetically.

By this time, Jean's worry had nearly consumed him. Did Marco hate him? Was this his way of telling Jean to piss off? He was too nice to tell it to the blond's face, so of course he would choose the passive course of action.

But, call him arrogant or self-assured, Jean had a tentative belief that this was not the case. The brunet had been acting strange before he had locked himself in his room. Yet he made sure to try and assuage Jean's worry with his smiles. He wouldn't have a reason to do such a thing if he truly hated the blond. And he appeared sad, not angry. Preoccupied, not annoyed.

So what was up with Marco? Jean was going to find out. He was going to help his friend through whatever version of Hell he was experiencing. And if he was pushed away in the process, so be it.

Jean could reach Marco's windowsill with one extended arm if he tried hard enough. True, he was no gymnast, but he was flexible enough to reach the sill. He untied the string from his desk and removed the bucket. He kept it with him for insurance, just in case he fell. Though he doubted that something so flimsy could help at all, he just felt more at ease knowing that it was there. At least the window itself was open; only the blinds were closed.

_This is probably the stupidest thing I've ever done_ , Jean thought as he reached a foot over to rest on Marco's windowsill. _Well, right after trying to steal an old woman's roast chicken on a dare from that idiot Jaeger in 10th grade_.

 Jean was now straddling the two houses, one foot on each ledge, a long drop through free air threatening him from beneath his legs. Against better judgement, he looked down. The pile of objects that Marco dropped was still there, spread over a couple square feet of grass.

He was nervous, and could feel his body shaking from exertion and fright. After a deep breath, the blond leaned over and grabbing desperately onto Marco's open window.

"W-what the fuck?" came a slurred, raspy voice from inside.

The sound of steps came toward the window, then the blinds were partially drawn up. Marco looked up at the figure trying to get into the house.

"Who are you?" Marco squinted, voice trembling.

"It's me, dumbass," Jean grunted.

"Ohmygod Jean what in the ever living fuck are you doing?" He didn't look mad, Jean observed, but rather shocked and mildly concerned.

Jean peered down, looking sheepish. "Uh, just-ow-coming to say hi."

The blond's back foot had twisted slightly the wrong way, and was feeling the urgency of getting back onto a solid floor.

"Help me in, Jesus," Jean ordered.

Marco scoffed at the nickname, but nevertheless obliged. He felt along the wall near the window until he reached Jean's fingers. He traced over them in a way that might have made the blond shiver were he not two floors up without a cushioned surface beneath him. The dark haired teen brought his hand along Jean's arm and hooked his own hand at the other's elbow. He repeated the process for the next arm. Once secure, he heaved Jean inside. 

Jean's weight was too much for Marco to handle, and the blond fell from the window and toppled him. They both landed on the floor with a muffled thud.

The brunet grumbled a little before pushing himself up on his forearms as far as the weight on top of him would allow.

"Jean, why are you here?" Marco said tiredly.

"Already told you," the other replied, getting himself unsteadily to his feet. "Just wanted to say hi."

"No. What's the real reason. Popping in for a quick visit in the middle of the night doesn't seem like something you would normally do."

The blond sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. Marco recognized this as a nervous habit that he had seen over the past month.

"I came in here to check up on you. I was...worried. About you. Because...yeah."

Marco shuffled backwards until his legs hit the edge of the bed, then sat down. "You were worried?"

"Y-yeah. Uh, you didn't come to the window at all for the past week. And the room was dark. And your blinds were closed. I figured something was wrong." He ran a hand down the back of his head and rubbed his neck. "Pretty stupid of me, huh, to come in through your window unannounced at 11:30 at night. I should just...leave, i guess."

Other than a halfhearted step back, Jean made no other move to leave. Instead, he said suddenly "Are you sure you're okay? Or no, wait, I didn't even ask if you actually were okay to begin with," He was tripping over his words, appearing to be mentally beating himself up.

"Are you-are you feeling alright, Marco?" Jean finally muttered.

The freckled boy sat with his head down, hands folded into his lap and knees pressed tightly together, trying to take up the smallest amount of space possible.

"Yeah," he breathed.

"Marco." Jean ordered. He was tired of putting up with Marco's facade of stability. The other responded by lifting his head, and meeting Jean's eyes with his own sad, amber ones.

"Honestly, Jean?" he said, a weary sigh following his words. "No. No I'm not okay."

 Marco dropped his head again; elbows propped onto thighs, heels of hands covering eye sockets. He drew a shaky breath, and Jean watched his back rise and fall with each sharp gasp for air. 

"I-" the brunet's voice was strained, raspy. "I'm blind, Jean."

Jean felt numb. He was numb and he couldn't feel anything, _damn_ why couldn't he feel anything it was Marco who was blind not him but he just couldn't deal with it right now because Marco was here and he was suffering and Jean just needed to _do something goddammit your best friend is blind and the only thing you can do is just stand here like an idiot fucking help him you fucking moron_ and he needed to get his shit together and be there for his best friend so he didn't have to suffer because that boy did not fucking deserve deserve it.

He was numb. He couldn't control himself. But his body seemed to know what to do anyway, lowering itself next to Marco and draping a hand across his back and gripping his shoulder. The brunet jumped a bit at the contact, and the small gesture was all that he needed to be sent off the edge. 

His hands were released from his face to lay helplessly at his sides, and his head tilted back to rest on Jean's shoulder. From its spot in the crook of Jean's neck, only part of his face was visible. It was red and blotchy, and the freckles that were sprayed across the cheek stood out against the tint. Tears soaked Jean's shirt, but he just held onto the other, sliding his hand from Marco's shoulder to the back of his head, reaching out with the other arm to wrap it around the brunet's body.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, Jean holding onto Marco while he released what felt like years' worth of sobs. This was the first time that the two had ever had physical contact, but the way that Marco let himself fall into Jean's arms was reminiscent of a lifelong relationship.

Eventually the boy's gasps for air devolved into low, guttural groans. Slow, stuttering breaths followed into silence. He peeled his head from Jean's neck and wiped his eyes furiously, as if the blond hadn't just seen him empty a fucking lake into his cotton tee. 

"I'm sorry, Jean," he croaked. "Your shirt." He pointed at the wet stain innocently.

Jean laughed - a soft, amused sort of laugh - which caught Marco off guard.

"What's so funny? I just fucking cried on your shoulder for like twenty minutes, and you're almost definitely done putting up with me by now, and there is a huge fucking puddle of tears soaked into your shirt. I don't get it."

"Just-" Jean started. "You're pretty cute."

"Uh, what?"

Oh. Shit. He hadn't meant to say that out loud. Cute? Nonononono. He couldn't say that to a boy who had just sobbed twelve years of tears because of a _serious fucking issue._

_Jean Kirschtein you are so fucked up,_ he told himself.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean-it's not that I-look-"

"I'm not cute. I'm manly as hell."

Jean snorted and Marco cracked a smile. The latter took a deep breath, one that hitched slightly with the effort of controlling it.

"I've had this disease since I was little," he said.

"Marco, no, you don't have to-"

"It's okay, Jean. I want to talk about it. It might...help...I guess."

The blond nodded hesitantly and waited for Marco to go on.

"Do you remember a few weeks ago, when you caught me reading under the windowsill?"

"Uh..." Jean thought for a moment. "Yeah, I think so."

"I never told you what the book was. It's in the trash bin over by the door."

He pointed in the approximate direction of his bedroom door, although he missed by several feet. Jean walked over to it and retrieved the book. Or, at least, what was left of it. He picked it up by the front cover, to which a few threads and pages were still attached. The majority of the spine along with the back cover and a cluster of loose, torn pages remained in the bin. The blond read the title page of the book: " _Does Your Child Have Retinitis Pigmentosa?_ by Z. Hanji. It sounds very...interesting?"

Marco snorted. "Don't lie, Jean. The book is fucking dull. I saw it on my mom's nightstand about a month ago when I went to her room looking for her. She wasn't in there, but I saw the book and took it. It kind of angered me that she would rely on a book for information on how to deal with a blind kid, because to me, I was still normal. My disease didn't define me."

Jean frowned. "It still doesn't define you, Marco," he tossed the cover back into the basket and sat down on the bed again. "So, Retinitis Pigmentosa, huh? That's a fancy name."

"Yeah, a fancy name for a piss poor problem."

Jean noticed that as Marco looked put-off, his language became more vulgar. He chuckled at the thought.

"It's basically a genetic disease that makes a person gradually lose sight and by the time they're like twelve or older they're on their way to being legally blind and blah blah blah but anyway, I read the entire book and it wasn't as shitty as I thought. Pretty informational, actually. Until the last few chapters, that is, because they focused on how to treat your child gently, not to provoke them, that it's a learning process and all that shit. I ripped the damn thing up when I came back from the doctor's office last week."

"The doctor's office? Is that where you were before you locked yourself up here?"

"Um, yeah, sorry about that by the way. It was wrong of me to abandon you like that," he said sheepishly.

"Well now that I know why, I guess I can let it slide. But it was still pretty shitty that you had to deal with all of that on your own," remarked the blond.

"Okay Jean. Next time I'm suffering from my strange blindness-induced craze, I'll let you know so you can keep me from tripping and falling out the window."

They both laughed, then settled into a short silence.

"Anyway," Marco began again after a while. "The doctor estimated that I had about four months left before I'm pretty much completely blind. My parents are scared shitless and they don't know how to deal with it, hence the book. They've always been like that though, and I pushed them away because it was always so suffocating. They didn't treat me like a real person. I felt more like poor, wounded animal or something petty like that."

He heaved another long sigh before turning to Jean. They were sitting side-by-side, so Marco pretty much knew where Jean's face was. 

"Thanks, Jean."

"For what? All I've done was sit here."

"No. You listened. I needed that, so thanks. But what I really mean is that I'm grateful that you treated me like a person."

"I couldn't even tell that you were going blind. I guess I must just be stupid, but now that I think about it, all those times that you accidentally dropped stuff from the window makes sense."

"Okay, but still. Thank you."

Even in the dark, Jean could make out his wide grin and the crinkles around his eyes. The irises reflected the moonlight outside, and they were really fucking bright. It made them look almost golden. If he stared hard enough, and let his own eyes adjust to the light, he could see a light blush on Marco's face. He found himself leaning forward until his mouth met the corner of Marco's. That, apparently, wasn't intentional, for he meant to go straight for the lips.

"Sorry," Marco laughed. "I can't see in the dark."

Jean smiled slightly, and took Marco's face in his hands. "Dammit, Bodt, what are we gonna do with you?"

He brought the other's lips to his. The brunet's sound of surprised turned into one of contentment as they settled against each other. Marco was pulled into Jean's lap as they kissed, his hands tangled into the thick blond hair at the top of the other's head. Jean's hands fell slightly, just to Marco's neck. They pulled away to rest their foreheads together.

Marco turned Jean's head a bit so that it fell into a strip of moonlight filtering in through the open window.

"I want to remember your face, Jean."

"I'll make sure you do."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Is travel-sized Monopoly even a thing? I don't know but let's pretend it is.  
> This was so much longer than I had originally planned holy fuuuuck. Also sorry for bad grammar.


End file.
